


you could make me all your own

by whiskeyinthejar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Basically PWP, Harry is an unintentional cocktease, Louis is very frustrated, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyinthejar/pseuds/whiskeyinthejar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes to think of the many different ways that he wants Louis to fuck him, all without knowing that Louis can actually hear him. Really, it’s a wonder that he never connected Louis’s sudden embarrassment or need to vacate the room to the increasing clarity and experimentation of his ideas.</p><p>It’s probably because thoughts are supposed to, y’know, be private.</p><p>-</p><p>Louis is a low level telepath and Harry has an over-zealous mind (maybe his thoughts aren’t really as secret as he thought thoughts were).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you could make me all your own

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this happens when I spend too much time alone in my room, so that when I do go outside I wonder what people would think if they could hear my thoughts  
> however I have not yet found someone who can do so
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events should be in no way associated with any person, and I do not profit from or intend to offend.

Later on, Harry will still maintain that none of what happened, happened suddenly. It was more a gradual slope downwards (spiralling down and down until his inadvertent teasing actually brought forward results). Louis’s more of the opinion that one day, Harry was just his friend, and the next, he suddenly wanted in his pants.

If Harry had to chose the exact moment where it all began, he’d be hard put. Of course, he’d put this down to it all being so long ago (it really isn’t). But if he had to, and he wonders sometimes, because his mind is overly active –as Louis likes to tell anyone who’ll listen and even anyone who doesn’t-, so he wonders.

It definitely wasn’t when they first met, because Zayn had brought him over so they could all meet his friend-from-work, and Harry was already totally shitfaced so he wouldn’t be thinking of it then. Although, seeing as he was totally shitfaced, he might’ve thought about it and then promptly forgotten about it the next morning as he nursed a bitch of a hangover. All he’d thought back then was that Zayn’s mate had fucking _glorious_ eyes, endless blue like a Caribbean sea, and he could get used to his smile. He used to actually be a tad romantic.

One of the more prominent ones that Harry can remember, and the earliest, would be Zayn had invited them all over (so he flirt shamelessly with Niall and then act like there was no homo going on there, and like, Harry isn’t _blind,_ he knows something is bubbling up over there) and Louis had turned up in these tight as fuck jeans and a vest top that showed off a lot of arms and collarbones. He even had tattoos, and Harry hadn’t been nearly drunk enough for this. It was one of the nights in which Louis seemed to bring new meaning to the word opinionated, arguing with everything that the little people on screen would say and then, once the TV was switched off, turning to argue with them instead. It came to a head, for Harry, when Louis told him that mint ice cream would always be better than coffee, and Harry had found, perversely, that the only thing he could think about was forcing Louis onto his knees and fucking his mouth until he couldn’t see fit to say anything anymore.  
And if Louis suddenly flushed bright red and excused himself, Harry didn’t notice.

After that, it became almost pitifully easy for Harry’s mind to slip somewhere between troublingly horny and creepily obsessive. At first, it was just something that he never questioned; Louis would say something funny or smart or snarky, and Harry would imagine how it would feel to take all Louis’s words away, to silence him completely. It might’ve been a power struggle, if Harry wasn’t also imagining how, when Louis won a Fifa game and declared himself the best out of all of them, it would feel for Louis to dominate him completely, brace him against a wall and ruin him.

How any of this continued on for a whole month, Harry doesn’t know. It’s not like it bothered _him_ particularly much, because he’d found that no matter how many times he’d think he’d dried up all his (rather worrying) imagination,  another fantasy would crawl out of the woodwork in his mind and make itself known. It’s probably lucky that he has a room to himself.  
When the one month mark had passed, Harry’s thoughts shifted tone. Only sometimes, and not always enough to notice, but instead of Harry forcing Louis’s jaws apart to make him take Harry, let Harry fuck his mouth until his eyes streamed, it turned into Louis, with his pink lips bruised red, tasting every bit of skin that Harry will allow, Louis letting Harry ride his cock, Louis and his mouth and his kisses.

It was about one month in that Harry realised he may be a little screwed.

The rest of them, and especially Liam, began to get more than a little pissy, because Louis started to beg of coming on lads’ nights out, and whenever he did come, he’d always disappear half-way through and never return. He usually put forward the excuse of being bogged down with work, and that was full of shit anyway because Louis worked in therapy and he’d never had this much work before. Zayn, of course, was too busy trying to catch the attention of a still-heterosexual Niall to pay much attention.

Looking back, though, he can place some of the blame squarely on Louis’s shoulders. It’s not as though you’re supposed to keep those kind of things from your friends, especially when one of your friends is sort-of maybe thinking about the different ways they’d like to be fucked and to fuck. So, really, it’s all Louis’s for not mentioning the fact that he might be able to _read minds._

Harry remembers the first time that the conversation came up. He probably always will, because it marks the time he felt like he may be having a heart attack.

“Guys.” Louis said, and only Harry turned to him because the rest were fighting over the last beer in the case and Harry was trying to stay sober for once (he got smashed last night). “ _Guys._ ” He added, with added emphasis and volume that turned it into a near screech.

“What?” Zayn asked, turning to Louis and inadvertently allowing Niall to pluck the can out of his hand. “You prick, that wasn’t fair, Louis dist-”

“Could I have the attention of the ever great room?” Asked Louis sarcastically. Harry thought about pushing him over on the sofa, the heel of his hand rubbing in to the crotch of Louis’s jeans, making him whimper and whine until he comes in his boxers like a schoolboy.

On the sofa next to him, Louis flinched.

“What do you want?” Liam replied, because Liam is polite (he used the next few seconds to push Niall off of his seat on the sofa and in to Zayn’s lap. Harry can’t say, truthfully, that Zayn looked like he minded all that much).

“I’ve, uh. I’ve gotta say something.”

“Spit it out then, Louis, we haven’t got all day.” Zayn grumbled, but it was good-naturedly. Knowing Zayn, he was secretly wishing for Louis to drag this out for as long as possible, because Niall didn’t look like he was going to move anytime soon. Perhaps one of them would have to take him aside and tell him, very gently, that Niall isn’t in to cock.

“It’s difficult to say.” Louis bitched back, and Zayn grinned. Liam looked concerned, but probably only because he was having trouble opening the beer, and Harry imagined rutting shamelessly against Louis in the kitchen of the house he shared with Zayn, thought about Louis and his deft hands and how they’d open him up until Harry begged for it, thought about how he’d keep himself until Louis told him, gave him permission to come.

Louis sucked in a breath, looking straight ahead.

“I can hear your thoughts. All of you. Well, not all of you. Some of you are easier to block out than others.”

Harry’s plan to stay sober didn’t hold.

It took the rest of the week for Louis to convince them he wasn’t full of shit, and mostly that because it took the rest of the night just for Niall to stop laughing (although, that doesn’t mean anything, because Niall goes into minor hysteria at every single thing that Louis says).

The jokes began shortly afterward.

“So what- you’re like a lost member of X-Men?”

“Are you secretly a vampire? Is your skin cold as ice?”

“Can you all, please, _fuck off._ ”

When it finally sunk in that Louis was telling the truth, Harry sat on the couch and felt his blood pressure and heart rate rise tenfold, all whilst he suddenly felt that he was slowly being submerged into acid. If Louis was telling the truth, and Harry was pretty sure he was, then he’d heard him. All this time, and Harry had been thinking (the things he’d been thinking, God, some of it wasn’t even stuff he wanted to remember the next day, because no one wants to think they’ve uncovered a secret kink where they want the person fucking them, one of their closest friends, to choke them as they come, that’s just borderline _psychotic_ ) that these fantasies were something he wouldn’t have to ever tell anyone. He wouldn’t tell a therapist half of it, let alone-  
-let alone the object of them.

Suddenly, Harry adds up Louis’s disappearances and disinclination to see them all with Harry’s increasingly dirty thoughts, and makes numbers beyond comprehension.

By the time the next night in came around, he’d psyched himself up to try an experiment. Louis arrived first, looking, as Harry wasn’t loath to admit, like he’d stepped off an Italian runway and ended up here. It’s not like many people can carry off baby-blue, after all.

Harry took the seat across from Louis, who’d sunk down on to the sofa and was friendly-arguing (debating? A lively conversing?) about whether he could use his skills to blackmail people and make himself the new England captain. Louis maintained that he would never lower himself to such standards, whilst Zayn was of the opinion that if only Louis were to use his ‘gift’ –this isn’t a teen movie, Zayn-, he could, in theory, take over the world. Without really realising what was happening, Harry looked at Louis, in his soft jumper, and pictured running his hands under it, fingertips skimming Louis’s skin and coming up to his nipples, pressing down and making Louis breathless so Harry-

“Can you shut _up_ , Harry, it’s like you think through a fucking _loudspeaker._ ”

With that, Louis clambered off the sofa and stalked out of the room. Harry tried desperately hard not to check out his butt as he left, because that’s just adding insult to injury.

“What was that about?” Zayn asks, eyebrows furrowed, and looking at where Louis exited the room.

“No idea.” Harry replies, trying to go for a clam and neutral voice and probably failing completely. “I’ll go see what’s up.”

He leaves Zayn to draw his own conclusions, which are probably freakishly close to the mark because Zayn seems to know everything that goes on in Harry’s life before Harry himself does, and follows Louis’s footsteps out the room. There’s a vague sound of opening and closing cupboards coming from the kitchen, so he makes his way over there, knocking softly on the door and edging his way in to the room.

“Hey.” Louis says, leaning against one of the kitchen counters and looking, for all the world, as though he doesn’t know every single sexual thought that Harry’s ever had about him.

“So, you. You heard that?” Harry tries, and Louis looks at him as though Harry’s an incredibly stupid son of a bitch. Which, all in all, could be true, but it doesn’t need to be said.

“What do you think?” Asks Louis, and Harry is in the process of trying to figure out whether that’s a rhetorical question or not when Louis sighs. “It was a rhetorical question.” He says, and Harry nods mutely.

“I’ll just, uh, be off then. You’ll be back later?”

Louis bites his lip for a second ( _‘Don’t think about it don’t think about it goddamn Harry stay quiet don’t-’_ red lips wrapped around Harry’s cock, moving up and down and Louis’s eyes never breaking contact with Harry’s, and Harry coming all down Louis’s throat- _‘Why can’t you fucking control this, you child’_ ) before promptly staring wide eyed at the wall.

“Bye!” Harry blusters, turning on his heel and making his way out of there faster than he knew it was possible for him to be able to move.

“Harry, mate. Your face is bright red.” Zayn says idly, as though Harry can’t already tell that all the blood in his body hasn’t already made it’s way up.

“I know.” He grits out, and he’s a prickly enough bastard that Zayn doesn’t say anything more to him on the topic, or even on the topic of Louis, for the rest of the night.

Such inhibitions don’t seem to stand for the day after, though.

“You awake, Harry?” Zayn asks, and Harry doesn’t know why the fuck he’s asleep on a sofa when his bed is only upstairs, but these kind of things happen.

“I am now.” He replies, and Zayn shuffles himself into a sitting position on the sofa next to him. Everyone else has gone home, and Harry is beginning to feel that whatever Zayn’s about to say, it’s not going to help his hangover. He blames Niall for initiating that drinking game (he should never have taken on an Irishman in a drinking game, foolish, _foolish_ mistake).

“I know why Louis’s annoyed.” Zayn says, like he’s been sent a special message from the Gods above and feels honour-bound to impart this knowledge on to Harry.

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s ‘cause you haven’t made a move.” Reveals Zayn, and Harry nearly snorts laughter.

“He doesn’t want me to ‘make a move’.” Harry says, putting up the imaginary quotation marks, and Zayn huffs because he is that kind of person. Harry’s surprised he’s even up this early.

“Why don’t you ask him about it?” Zayn says persuasively, and Harry resolves to, if only to settle this once and for all.

*

The next time that Louis drops by, Harry notes that he’s got on the same sleeveless top that, in essence, began this whole pathetic story, and there’s too much skin showing and it’s going straight to Harry’s dick.

“Can we talk?” He says, instead of something ridiculous like ‘Can I suck you off in our hallway?’, and it’s a good sign that he’s still in control of his mental functions. “In private?”

Louis nods once, and Zayn better be right about this or Harry is dropping everything and moving across the pond, shaving his head and changing his name. Most importantly, he can try and move on from this embarrassment in private.

With buttercup yellow walls, Harry’s not sure the kitchen is exactly the place for a life-or-death situation, but he’s going to have to make do. He wants to force himself to say something intelligent, borderline humour and witty, with a dash of charm, because that’s the kind of thing that will make this whole situation more bearable and slightly more hopeful, but he’s not holding out any hope.

“Zayn told me that you’re only pissed because you’re not in my pants.” He rushes out, and well. That wasn’t intelligent, witty or charming.

“Uh.” Louis says, inspecting a picture of a dancing chicken on the wall with the utmost care. “Did he now?”

If Harry knows the different tones people use in regard to Zayn, and he does know them very well, then Louis’s is somewhere in the region of: “That little fucker I’ll show him, you wait, Malik, I’ll castrate you and flay the skin off you once I’ve hung you up by your fingernails”.

“Yeah.” Harry replies quietly, and Louis isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at that fucking picture, and it will always be the fault of Louis’s dare to bare top that Harry steps forward and presses their mouths together. There’s no reciprocation from Louis for a few beats of time, and then Louis’s kissing back, walking them backwards until Harry’s back is pressed up against the wall, Louis reaching up so he can slide his fingers under the hem of Harry’s shirt and press them on skin, walking them up and down. Harry moves his own hands so one knots in the short hairs at the nape of Louis’s neck, and tilt him so Harry can get better access to the inside of Louis’s mouth, and the other with fingers curled around Louis’s bicep (purely for the reason that he _can_ ). Harry’s just wrapped his head around the idea that he’s kissing Louis, right here, right now, with the rest of his friends in the other room, when one of Louis’s hands decides to move down from his torso and make their way to the front of Harry’s jeans, fingers tapping rhythmically on the fabric, and that alone shouldn’t be enough to turn Harry on, but it is. He consoles himself with the fact that he’s been waiting for this a very long time.

“Want me to blow you?” Louis asks out of the blue, pulling back to look at Harry, and Harry’s very conscious of the fact that Louis’s lips are kissed red and shining (bleeding through his memories; wanting to fuck Louis’s mouth until Louis can’t remember his own name; Louis’s sinful lips moving over his body, coming up to his thighs and his pink tongue reaching out for kitten licks; having his cock swallowed down by Louis, how Louis’s mouth would look stretched open).

“Yeah.” Harry whispers, nodding his head violently and nearly banging it on the wall behind him. Louis, who’s eyes had begun to glint at the obvious stream of fantasies Harry just displayed, grins, pulling Harry down by the neckline of his shirt to whisper into his ear.

“You have been busy. I wonder how you sleep at night?” Before moving back to in front of Harry and pressing down on Harry’s lower lip with his teeth, eyes flown shut. Harry closes himself off to everything but feeling, lets Louis’s mouth have it’s way with his own, Louis’s tongue darting across Harry’s mouth, Harry’s lips parting so easily and letting Louis claim him. Louis moves himself so Harry’s crotch is pressing against Louis’s own, and even this pressure is enough to make Harry hard (it’s been far too long).

It’s really not fair. If Harry sometimes has dreams where his imagination can run wild, it’s not his fault, and it’s really not his fault that they may sometimes include Louis (they always include Louis).

With sudden movement, Louis pulls back, and sinks on to his knees; his fingers fumble with the straps of Harry’s belt, pulling it off and dropping it to the side of them , before dragging the cloth of Harry’s jeans down over his legs so they bunch at his ankles.

“You wanted to fuck my mouth, I think?” Louis asks, voice calm, and Harry is pretty sure he hates him, because Harry can’t even turn the gears in his brain to function a reply.

In lieu of giving one, Harry begins to pull down his boxers, soft cotton slipping over skin, and Louis takes that duty off him, sliding them down to join his jeans on the kitchen floor.

Harry’s cock has only just stood up straight, free of constricting fabric, before Louis’s mouth has moved forward, tongue running slowly up from the base to the head, rubbing precome across Louis’s mouth and making it slick.  
That’s all it takes for Harry to move his hands down, guide Louis’s mouth open and let Louis swallow him down, watch how Louis’s glossy lips move up and down over him, all hot and wet friction. If Harry was currently in any kind of state to be observing the technique, he’d notice how Louis was able to deepthroat him very successfully, but he was more concerned with how he was getting sucked off in his kitchen by his more-than-best friend.

Louis moves off, allowing himself some breathing space, and Harry’s hands move without his consent, pushing Louis’s head forward, and Harry’s hips jerk forward at the same time. It wouldn’t be as exhilarating, Harry thinks, if Louis wasn’t _letting_ him; he thinks of all the times he’s wanted this, thought of it at night as he jerked himself off, thinks off all the times that he’s imagined making Louis beg and whimper.

A strangled noise comes up from Louis’s throat, like a muffled moan, and that’s enough for Harry to be coming hard, eyes snapping shut and splattering white down Louis’s throat.

Boneless, he lets his legs fall out from under him as he sinks to a crouch, trying to shift his boxers back up his legs with loose joints.

“That was. Enlightening.” Louis says, voice hoarse. If he was a better person, Harry would feel ashamed, but he’s kind of proud that he fucked Louis’s voice raw.

“I hope this wasn’t a one off.” Harry replies, and Louis looks at him as though Harry’s not at all funny and shouldn’t be allowed to make jokes.

“Ugh.” Louis grimaces, standing and propping one hand against a kitchen counter. He’s looking down at his jeans with disdain, like they’ve done something to personally offend him, and it doesn’t take too long, even for Harry to add up all the signs and come to a reasonable conclusion.

“You came in your pants.” He grins, trying not to laugh because that’s unspeakably rude (like fucking someone’s mouth isn’t). “Like a little boy. I made you come in your pants. I didn’t even have to _touch_ you, and-”

“Fuck off, Harry.” Replies Louis, and Harry’s just pulled his trousers up and is considering how nice Louis’s hair looks when it’s been pulled every which way by Harry’s fingers and how strands of it light up gold under light when Niall walks in to the room, looks between them both suspiciously and stands still.

“Was there something going on in here I should know about?” He asks, narrowing his eyes, and Harry smiles innocently.

“Of course not, Niall. Although, Louis’s staying over here tonight, and I’m sure Zayn would love to share his room with you. Plenty of things you could use his room for.”

“If you get our meaning.” Adds Louis, and the look on Niall’s face as he hurriedly exits the room tells them that he’s run off to have his heterosexual crisis.

“I’m staying here tonight?” Louis asks, turning to face Harry. Harry notes that Louis’s pupils are still blown, and he wonders how long Louis fucking wanted this.

“Got lots of ideas I want to try out.”

It’s not until later, once they’ve tired themselves out and it’s dark in the room, that Harry voices his question.

“If you knew I wanted this, why didn’t you just do something? Why’d you leave it up to me?”

“It would be too much like taking advantage, y’know. Like, if I couldn’t hear you, I wouldn’t have known. So I left it as it would be normally. Also, you didn’t even try to be romantic. What happened to taking a guy out for some wining and dining?”

“Traditions are monotonous. And I guess I’m a tease.” Harry says wonderingly, and he thinks he can feel Louis’s hand skittering up the inside of his thigh. “Never put m’self down as the type.”

“You’re not the only one.” Louis replies.

Judging by how Louis’s breath is hot on Harry’s neck and his hand is now off of Harry’s thigh and somewhere more intimate, they’re not quite finished yet.


End file.
